Subject: Place Out of Time
From: Cecilia Baader (ceciliaann@hotmail.com)
Date: Sun Aug 06 2000 - 22:45:24 GMT
It was a place of magic. An enchanted isle, green and gorgeous, misting and
mystical. I'd spent the previous week climbing through crumbling castles,
gazing at a thousand-year-old harp, and trying not to peek over my shoulder
every other minute in hopes of spying a faerie or two.
In a place such as this, one tends to believe in everything.
It was what the natives called a "soft" day, with the Wet making Himself
known to me in a way that I couldn't ignore. Before the day was through, we
were old friends indeed, the Wet and I. Himself accompanied me throughout
the morning as I wended my way through the shop-lined streets of Kinsale to
the place where we'd arranged to meet.
We went to tea, Scottie and I, accompanied by Mark, also known as
mysontheFreudian. I was accompanied only by the Wet.
We settled in the empty tearoom and started on the pot and the talk. The
young rather vague waitress brought out a pot and three cups, but only one
saucer, which she placed in front of Mark. He claimed that it was because
he ordered Earl Grey. I wondered if it was just because she liked his
shirt.
It was an awfully nice shirt.
Scottie leaned back in his chair and began questioning me. In return, I
began telling him things I didn't even know that I knew. Or maybe perhaps I
didn't. He was kind enough, however, to listen and not look too skeptical
and argue only sometimes. It was when I began pontificating on Mississippi
riverboats and Scott Joplin that I knew it was time for me to shut my mouth
and drink some tea.
The pot, however, was nearly empty. I was able to pour enough into my cup
to warm it before I was stopped. "We can do better than that,” Mark said,
leaning back in his chair and signaling to the waitress. He requested
another pot and she hurried off.
I went to drink what remained in my cup only to find it summarily removed
from my hand and placed just out of my reach. "And clean cups, too," he
said to the waitress, who had just arrived with our new pot.
"Clean cups?" she repeated, as if the request was one she'd never heard
before. I was glad for that. I hadn't either. Obviously not one for
asking questions, she shrugged and headed towards the back. The dining room
was filling up and I could tell that she didn't have much use for Mark's
lovely shirt any longer.
I eyed my cup (still out of reach) and wondered what it meant, this need for
clean cups. Perhaps there was something Freudian in it. Virgin vessels and
all that.
But then perhaps not.
"You know where, in fact, we are?" Mark said. "We're in that other tea
room. The one in Devon." I looked around, and it took me a second to make
the connection.
But there was only one connection to be made. "Well," I said, not without
irony, thinking that young Esmé would know all about fresh teacups, "we know
what that makes me."
Scottie leaned back against the window and his eyes glinted. "Now you're in
awfully thick with this Kennedy chap. Is he as old as he looks?" His grin
broadened. I grinned back and explained that poor Paul wasn't old at all.
The waitress still hadn't brought our fresh cups. I was certain that the
lovely blue shirt had lost all its charm by this point.
"Are you sure?" he asked, looking disappointed, "He looks positively ancient
in his photograph." I tried to contain my laughter. I don't think that I was
altogether successful.
The cups arrived and we talked of other fish and other subjects and suddenly
it was very late. Time to leave, in fact. We hurried through the rain
towards the car and the Wet didn't manage to touch me even once this time.
I had himself to thank for that one. Enchanted isle indeed.
Enchanted tearoom more likely.
Quite.
Regards,
Cecilia.
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This archive was generated by hypermail 2b25 : Fri Sep 29 2000 - 11:02:16 GMT